weird region, thinly peopled it is true, but still of great extent, and apparently abandoned to the powers of darkness, only one edifice could be found where its inhabitants could meet to pray, and this was an ancient chapel at Goldshaw Booth, originally erected in the reign of Henry III., though subsequently in part rebuilt in 1544, and which, with its low grey tower peeping from out the trees, was just discernible.  Two halls were in view; one of which, Sabden, was of considerable antiquity, and gave its name to the village; and the other was Hoarstones, a much more recently erected mansion, strikingly situated on an acclivity of Pendle Hill.  In general, the upper parts of this mountain monarch of the waste were bare and heathy, while the heights overhanging Ogden and Barley were rocky, shelving, and precipitous; but the lower ridges were well covered with wood, and a thicket, once forming part of the ancieut forest, ran far out into the plain near Goldshaw Booth.  Numerous springs burst from the mountain side, and these collecting their forces, formed a considerable stream, which, under the name of Pendle Water, flowed through the valley above described, and, after many picturesque windings, entered the rugged glen in which Rough Lee was situated, and swept past the foot of Mistress Nutter’s residence.

Descending the hill, and passing through the thicket, the party came within a short distance of Goldshaw Booth, when they were met by a cowherd, who, with looks of great alarm, told them that John Law, the pedlar, had fallen down in a fit in the clough, and would perish if they did not stay to help him.  As the poor man in question was well known both to Nicholas and Roger Nowell, they immediately agreed to go to his assistance, and accompanied the cowherd along a by-road which led through the clough to the village.  They had not gone far when they heard loud groans, and presently afterwards found the unfortunate pedlar lying on his back, and writhing in agony.  He was a large, powerfully-built man, of middle age, and had been in the full enjoyment of health and vigour, so that his sudden prostration was the more terrible.  His face was greatly disfigured, the mouth and neck drawn awry, the left eye pulled down, and the whole power of the same side gone.

“Why, John, this is a bad business,” cried Nicholas.  “You have had a paralytic stroke, I fear.”

“Nah—­nah—­squoire,” replied the sufferer, speaking with difficulty, “it’s neaw nat’ral ailment—­it’s witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft!” exclaimed Potts, who had come up, and producing his memorandum book.  “Another case.  Your name and description, friend?”

“John Law o’ Cown, pedlar,” replied the man.

“John Law of Colne, I suppose, petty chapman,” said Potts, making an entry.  “Now, John, my good man, be pleased to tell us by whom you have been bewitched?”

“By Mother Demdike,” groaned the man.

“Mother Demdike, ah?” exclaimed Potts, “good! very good.  Now, John, as to the cause of your quarrel with the old hag?”